


too wild

by veraglade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dark Jon Snow, F/M, John Wick (Movies) References, Jon Snow is Jon Wick, Modern AU, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 12:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15707241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veraglade/pseuds/veraglade
Summary: When Jon Snow walks into the Mockingbird, he is not coming out without his sister.





	too wild

Lost and beat up  
Dancin' down there  
I found you somewhere out

(...)

Daddy found out  
How you turned out, how you turned out  
If mama knew now  
How you turned out, you too wild  
You too wild, you too wild

  
Kanye West - Wolves

 

***

 

 

 

The  _Mockingbird_  thrums with the beats of dark techno. It's the kind of music that feels like smoke. It coils around you, makes it hard to breathe. The sway of slender bodies against the aluminum poles does little to dispel the effect. He notices that the dancers are all wearing tasteful lingerie and negligees that conceal their more private parts. This is meant to be a different kind of establishment. Even if it barters in sex and money, it only caters to the exclusive set.

Jon looks like he's been melded from the very fabric of the club. You'd have to be. You can only get inside if you have the proper attire. He's wearing a dark suit, dark shirt and tie.  His beard is trimmed, his hair is slicked back. No one looking for the Snow bastard would be looking here, much less recognize him. 

He is betting on that anonymity. 

Jon swallows thickly as he advances towards the red-lit velvet bar at the other end of the room. He by-passes waitresses clad in little black dresses. Most of them are blondes. He's looking for a redhead. He hopes it's still red.

He hasn't seen his sister since she was thirteen. It's been ten years. A lot can change in that time. 

He parks on one of the red stools in front of the bar.

"Just a beer, thanks."

The older woman behind the bar winks at him. She's got laugh lines around her mouth and green highlights in her hair. It's hard to remain tense in her presence. She exudes a kind of maternal confidence. 

"You look like you need something stronger," she says, leaning forward and bringing up two shot glasses. 

Jon is looking for information, so he won't put up a fight. But he's not going to get shitfaced. He's not going to talk too much. He has to be careful.

"That bad, eh?" he replies in good humor. 

"Mno, but most men usually go for the spectator seats, not the bar. This tells me you're here to drink, not watch. Am I right?"

"Maybe," he says with a tight smile. "Though I think my view's pretty good here too." 

"You flatterer," she says, grinning with delight. Her eyes spark with interest. "I'm Ros, by the way." 

"Jon."

"Hm, we both have short names. I like that. Is your past as short as your name, Jon?" 

The question feels a little pointed. Jon's hand pauses on the glass. Ros laughs. "Relax, we get all kinds here."

"What kind do I seem, then?"

"The kind who wears that suit well, but isn't used to it," she says with a teasing smile. He looks at her carefully. This woman reads people like she reads receipts. She knows he's not here for a peep show. 

Jon clears his throat. He might as well go ahead and tell her. "I actually came here to see someone."

"Ah. And I thought you were different." 

"Her name's Alayne," he adds, throwing back the vodka shot. It burns the lining of his throat, but he's had far worse. 

Ros' eyes flicker with mischief.

"Is it now?"

"Do you happen to know if she works here?" 

"Mm. You really should've put on a different suit," Ros murmurs and picks up her own shot. Downs it in one go. She licks her lips. "Look behind you, cowboy. Table number 7."

Jon frowns. 

He looks briefly over his shoulder. He looks again. He turns his whole body slowly towards table number 7. 

Six men are sitting around it. Most of them sport fake toupees and graying hair but you don't see any potbellies. Lean bodies in rich suits. Their wrist watches could probably buy someone a house with a pool.

They are not chatting among them. They are staring, mesmerized, at the dark figure swaying against the pole. Her movements are delicate, but precise. Every contortion is premeditated. She writhes for their pleasure, but inside she is a locked cipher.

He remembers he used to drive her to ballet lessons. He used to watch her rest her leg against the bar and put her head on the flute of her ankle. 

She has the same agility. 

Her long legs straddle the cold metal, make it bend to her will. Her brassiere glimmers with encrusted emeralds that form the outlines of a mockingbird. Her hair is not red. It's dyed a cool brown. Her face is angular, mature. But her grey-blue eyes are just the same.

Jon swallows thickly. He can't help staring at her body, the way it hangs upside down, the way it defies gravity. She is graceful and sinful. The little Sansa is still etched somewhere on her face, but the woman has almost swallowed her whole.

He feels sick and cold and hot all over. He thought he'd master it better. He doesn't. Of all things, he had hoped it wouldn't be this. He had hoped she'd be a waitress, tending the bar, even cleaning the floors.

But someone of her beauty would not be wasted there.  _No_. 

He had known deep down, had always known. Had chosen to deny it, because he is still a naive Northerner when it comes to family.

But those men leering at his sister, his flesh and blood. Those disgusting men asking for a lap dance, groping her, trying to possess her. 

Jon feels the decision settling somewhere between his shoulder blades. 

It's Ros who taps him on the arm.

"You shouldn't set your heart on Alayne. She is already taken." 

Jon unbuttons his jacket. "You're talking about Baelish?"

He's uttered his real name, not the fake Littlefinger moniker. 

Ros opens her mouth, blushes, closes her mouth. She tries to hide her surprise. "I'd be careful what you say around here, Jon." 

"I'd be careful too," he says low under his breath. "Go ahead. Press the security button under the counter."

"W-What?"

"I want you to." Jon smiles. "I'm asking you, in fact. Call security."

"Do you have a death wish?" she hisses.  

"I'm not the one dying tonight," he says lightly. 

Ros stares at him. "I was wrong about you."

"No, you weren't. Now get under the counter. And don't come out."

"But -"

He does not allow her a moment of respite. 

All the exits of the club have been blocked by thick-necked thugs in track suits. 

Jon removes two revolvers from his vest. He feels them thrumming, like the music, like the beat - the beat of his heart. There's a bowie knife in his boot. He intends to use all of them. And then his bare hands. 

Everything in the  _Mockingbird_  comes to a slow halt. 

And in that split-second before Jon starts shooting, his sister recognizes him. She drops down from the pole. Her negligee falls open and her eyes widen.

"Jon -"

 

 

 

Yes, he'd dressed right. Like the men in the business suits, the young men who work in corporate and crave the underbelly of the city. The men who take a trip to downtown Berlin for just what the doctor prescribed. The bouncers let him through without really looking at him.

Their (fatal) mistake. 

Years training with the Marine Corps have made him into the right kind of killing machine. 

The unforgiving kind. 

 

 

 

It happens too quickly. Even if you paused it, even if you slowed the sequence down, it would still be dizzying, a game of targets, a Russian Roulette with only one winner.

Jon shoots and stabs his way through Baelish's men. The floor is slick with blood. 

If patrons happen to stand in his way, more's the pity. They should've cleared out when they heard the gunshots.

The women are smarter. The women have found shelter under the tables or with Ros. 

His sister is not with the women. He can't see her anymore. Bullets fly haphazardly. He doesn't miss a single shot. Superior officers used to tell him his anger would be his undoing. But little did they know.

His anger is a fresh spring. It fuels him more than oxygen.

He lunges through one of the back doors and stabs one of the thugs in the eye. He fights his way down the corridor. 

He can hear sirens through the walls. He hasn't got long now. 

"Jon!"

Her voice is crystal clear even through the mayhem. He hasn't heard his name in her mouth in a long time.

Sansa Stark stands at the end of the corridor, holding her arms around a short and wiry man garbed in a green suit and sporting a goatee. 

At first, he thinks she is trying to protect Baelish. He feels a dismayed ache in his heart.

But then, he notices the little man is trying to wrestle out of her grasp.

Sansa holds him down. "Shoot him now." Her voice is the North, her voice is snow. Her voice is so much hatred. 

Jon takes aim. After all these years, his sister trusts him enough to stand next to his live target. 

He doesn't miss.

 

 

 

She's splattered in Baelish's blood. Jon's thumb swipes at her cheek.

"It's good to see you, Jon," she says with trembling familiarity.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he says. He wants to rip the lingerie from her body, wants to burn it. He wants to cover her nakedness. He wants to be the only one who -

He stops there. The night's excitement has addled his brains. He isn't thinking straight.

His beautiful little sister. He needs to be better than those men. 

But it's hard when she stands on her toes and presses a cherry-sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

Not quite on the mouth, not quite on the cheek. 

The floor sways with him. 

It's just a learned behavior, he tells himself. He needs to get her out of here. 

He stoops and picks her up by the back of her legs, hoisting her over his shoulder. Sansa clings to his head. 

He inhales the perfume and the scent of her. 

"Take me home," she says softly, and although they both know there's no such thing as "home" for either of them anymore - the Stark name being an old relic - he promises to himself he will make a home for her. Even if they have to tread on corpses first.

Which they do as they leave the _Mockingbird_ behind _._

 

 


End file.
